Back Together
by Dev Nine-Asher
Summary: A decade after Buffy is turned and her soul returned to her, the ex-slayer is still punishing herself for the death of one of her friends. She runs into Spike on a lonely stretch of road one night, and soon an ugly truth comes out into the open AU,S6,SB


_**Back Together**_

**_Author:_** Dev Nine-Asher

**_Précis: _**(AU, S/B, S6) Begins during "Seeing Red", only Warren is originally arrested at the scene of the attempted robbery. Thinking the Trio safely in jail, Buffy sets out to confront Spike about the attempted rape, only to fall prey to a bullet from the escaped Warren who has followed her. Mysteriously, Buffy awakens the next night in a deserted crypt – as a vampire. A decade after Buffy is turned and her soul returned to her, the ex-slayer is still punishing herself for the death of one of her friends. She runs into Spike on a lonely stretch of road one night, and soon an ugly truth comes out into the open…

**_Disclaimer: _**_I own NOTHING!_

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* * *

__Chapter I Of ?

* * *

_

_Angel, Angel, go away, _

_Come again some other day_

_The Devil has my ear today,_

_I won't hear a word you say..._

_

* * *

_

She was stalking with a grim, single-minded determinedness through the cemetery, when the shots rang out.

The blow seemed to come out of nowhere in the darkness. It landed solidly at her back with a frightening finality, driving her down onto her knees on the cold ground. Another shot whined by her, striking a statue and sending a sharp bit of debris slicing painfully into her cheek…another buried itself in the ground near her legs.

Buffy blinked at the landscape of moonlit gravestones before her, the usual black and blue-gray monochrome of the night suddenly washed scarlet. It wasn't raining…why did she feel so cold and wet all of a sudden?

Someone was talking to her, no, yelling at her. Everything was moving so quickly, it was frightening, confusing - God, she couldn't make out the angry words, her hearing was blurring, like she was trying to listen underwater…she put out a hand to steady herself, but the world tilted drunkenly, like she was watching a filmed scene where the camera suddenly fell over….

Her cheek was on the grass. One hand was flung outstretched onto a freshly dug grave nearby, and the rich scent of the damp dirt filled her nostrils. The smell was cloying, stirred terrifying memories – her hand clenched and she felt her nails dig into the soft ground. Her heartbeat was sickeningly loud and distorted in her ears. Something moved in her line of vision, in slow motion, and a pair of crazed eyes set in a grinning face leered down at her, triggering an instinctive, sluggish reaction in her brain that her body couldn't seem to respond to.

Warren…he'd shot her.

_She was going to die from a gunshot wound._

It seemed to Buffy that she should be feeling some major outrage, but breathing was becoming an increasing chore, and she had to remind herself to do it. Warren was still chattering gleefully beside her, kicking dirt in her face as he crazily paced back and forth.

Buffy closed her eyes. His weasel-like features weren't going to be the last thing she saw before she died, if she could help it.

Things are so different this time. There are so many things left unfinished. Oh God, what about Dawn? What…what about – "Spike…" 

A loud roar filled her ears, and she felt a sudden flurry of violent movement nearby. Minutes ticked by endlessly. More noise, more movement, a feeling of urgency. She was lifted up. The stillness came then, and there was an odd sense of freedom in it she hadn't felt before. When she tried to open her eyes to look around, and saw only a blank grayness, she knew she was done again. Over. Finished. The burden was someone else's to carry now.

She sighed.

_'I wonder how long will it last this time - '_

_

* * *

_

_Ten Years Later…

* * *

_

She entered the small, smoke-filled bar with a dark self-assurance that had become second nature to her over the years. The place was a compete dive, but it was the kind of hole-in-the-wall place that she needed just then. It was full of more than one scruffy, shifty-looking male who stank of fear, guilt, and cheap grain alcohol. She knew better, from experience, than to pigeon-hole or stereotype, but these guys had everything they were practically stamped into their foreheads. She scanned the room from beneath lowered eyelids, quick practiced glances that gave her all the info she needed without being obvious.

By the time she reached the bar, she knew how many people were in the place, which ones were likely to have weapons, fangs, horns, _pulses_ - and where all the possible exits were located. It was a habit that had long ago quickly become instinct, second nature – or 'third', if one wanted to get technical…

The thought made her lips quirk humorlessly for an instant before she pulled her girlishly short frame up to casually straddle the cracked red vinyl of a stool. Her boot heels hooked over the rungs, and she placed her forearms on the edge of the bar. She kept her back slightly hunched, hoping not to attract any more attention than she already had. In these places body language was everything.

Not that she figured anyone would really approach her. Most of the time people realized in time that the very air around her screamed bad ass.

Of course there was always the guy who was too stupid - or too drunk - to notice.

She ordered a beer – bottle, not tap – from the disgruntled looking bar tender and looked up as a flicker of light caught her eye.

The small TV above the bar couldn't be heard – mostly because it was on mute – but she only gave the headlines on the news channel it was tuned to a cursory glance before focusing back on her beer.

Her lukewarm beer.

Resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose, she pushed down her annoyance and proceeded to tune out the rest of the room. However hard she tried to focus on the warm beer, though, painful memories kept intruding. Memories of pain, darkness, blood…

_God, so much blood…_

_

* * *

_

_"I can't exist like this! You have to do this for me! Please, you're the only one who can do this for me - "_

_"I'm not listening to this. You need to give yourself time to adjust, is all. You'll learn to survive, believe me."_

_"No, I can't! I won't! I don't want to remember what I did, what I'm capable of doing – oh, God, just make it go away – "_

_"How can you think I could do this? How blind can you be? Don't you understand? I can't be – they can't be without you. Bloody hell, I - your friends need you, your sis needs you! Fight for them, damn it!"_

_"They don't want me to fight for them! The only reason I'm still standing here is because they don't want my death on their conscience…"_

_

* * *

_

After a while, she shook her head at the nearly untouched bottle before her and finally decided she needed something harder. She signaled, her face resolute, and the bartender lazily obliged, keeping her supplied with a healthy dose of a harsh whiskey of unknown origin.

She was finally getting a warm, fuzzy buzz when, inevitably, the guy who never knew any better landed on the bar stool beside her. She spared him a narrow glance out of the corner of her eye before she felt her lips curl in disgust. Besides smelling in a particularly rank way, he looked like the kind of sleaze she'd seen on old COPS re-runs.

Nothing like getting arrested in your dirty underwear for beating the wife and being sky-high on the drugs cops found in your kids diaper…

She slammed back one last shot and decided she wasn't in the mood to get hit-on by the Amazing Mr. B.O., who, incidentally, also looked like the potential rapist type. Just as she reached into her pocket and tossed a few bills onto the bar, the smelly guy grabbed her forearm and latched on with eager fingers. Standing up abruptly to gain the advantage – as if she didn't already have early every advantage in the world over the worm – she fought to control her temper and stared at the hand pointedly. Not surprisingly, Stinky didn't take the hint. He probably thought he was real popular around here.

_Yeah, like the plague,_ she thought, lips twisting in disgust.

She so didn't need this.

"Hey, baby," Stinky slurred, tightening his grimy hand around her leather covered arm, "you lookin' good." He ran watery blue eyes over her slight form, partially hidden by a long black duster. "Listen, I got's a place not far from here."

Jerking her arm away, she let her eyes drift over his face. His teeth – what were left of them – had a greenish tint that made her want to gag. So did his gin-laden breath.

Oblivious to any sense of self-preservation, he leaned closer to her, so close she could count the thinning, oily hairs still clinging to his scalp, and said in what he obviously thought was a whisper, "I got some good time stuff back there, know what I mean?" The hand was back in an instant.

Tensing her jaw, she shook him off and sent him a glare of warning that should have made him back off like a dog from a rattler, but he was too far gone to notice it.

Turning her back, she walked very deliberately to the exit. Here was Stinky's chance to get out of the bar without any broken appendages.

Behind her he spat on the floor and muttered, "Uppity bitch."

Bright red anger flared, like blood flooding her vision, but she made herself reach for the door. That was when someone made the mistake of throwing a glass bottle at her head.

Instinct drove her to turn and bring up her leg – she kicked the missile back at it's sender.

There was a pained yelp from the Romeo at the bar as the amber-colored glass shattered against his suddenly bumpy and ridged forehead. She watched, face expressionless as the fanged menace tipped off the bar stool and landed in an unconscious heap on the litter-covered floor.

Silence reigned momentarily. Then a biker at the grungy pool table in the corner roared, "The Slayer! She's the Slayer – I shoulda' known the minute she walked in here!"

The girl she'd been ten years ago would have cursed the fact that she'd given herself away in front of so many enemies, but now the words only made her smile grimly and shake her head.

"Sorry, but you've got the wrong girl." Didn't these guys use their ears?

"Don't care what she is," somebody grunted from the back, "she busted up Nate real bad, and he owes me thirty Persians that I ain't gonna' get tonight 'cause of her! I say we have some an' take it outta' her pretty hide!"

Counting for patience was quickly becoming a useless endeavor. She finally snarled - and then smiled as her features shifted into what had long been their 'natural' state.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said sweetly through a pair of wickedly sharp fangs, "I guess I should have been more specific. What I meant to say is that I'm not the Slayer…_anymore_."

The bar's occupants looked stunned at her change.

She regarded them through glowing gold eyes and then took the opportunity to sift through her violent nature for a scrap of tolerance – but the chance to make use of what little she found never came. Everyone in the room, human and demon alike, began to mob, grabbing up pool cues and bottles, producing knives and clubs and pistols. The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun.

She sighed.

_Not again._

"Let's get this over with." Burning, yellow-gold eyes bored into the mob, and a dagger and stake appeared in her hands from beneath the cover of her coat.

* * *

She exited the now silent bar a few minutes later, nursing a deep cut above her right eye. She figured she might have achieved a better buzz than she'd originally thought since one of the local yokels had gotten in a lucky swipe with a broken bottle – she was fortunate she hadn't lost the eye…

Wiping the trickle of blood away on her sleeve, she congratulated herself on her self-control. Yet another victory without death – to the humans, anyway.

Whoo-fucking-hoo… 

Aggravated by the scent of blood, and with a hunger now upon her, she kicked the door shut behind her angrily, and stepped off the crooked, leaning porch and onto the dry, packed dirt of the parking area.

The autumn night was quiet except for the sound of her boot heels on the ground. She took a moment to revel in the moonlight and fresh air before her feet turned her towards her car.

She eyed the dusty silver paint on the fairly new model Mustang she'd picked up from a dead drug-dealer back in Indianapolis, and allowed her head to hang tiredly. She wasn't one to hang around in one place for too long anymore, but this evening she found herself craving the comfort and relative safety of her old room back home – the one that didn't even exist anymore.

She went and opened the car door, but didn't get in. She stuck her fists deep in her pockets and leaned against the opening instead.

The numb from the whiskey had begun to fade, and she was pissed at herself for letting the situation in the bar get so far out-of-hand. She knew that fighting humans was dangerous, even in her 'condition', but she hadn't had much of a choice in the matter, tonight…anyway, she hadn't killed any humans.

Yet.

_Damn, she was hungry..._

She should have just walked away.

Her demon pride would never have let her.

She was so into her thoughts she didn't sense that someone was behind her until she heard the strike of a match and caught the smell of sulfur.

Spinning around, she looked over the roof of the car, ready to drop into a defensive pose.

The clouds chose that moment to swallow up the moon, and even with her predator's night vision, she could only make out the red-orange tip of a cigarette floating in mid-air several feet away – but the acrid smell of burning tobacco on the wind also brought with it another, far more interesting scent.

She drew in a careful, deep breath, and there was no denying it.

It was _him_.

She found herself smiling despite her dismay.

"Hello, Spike."

* * *

Spike took a few steps forward – as he did, the moon fought it's way free of the clouds. He felt his cold heart jerk painfully at the sight of her, and clenched his jaw. God, he could smell her, had been able to from a mile away.

"Buffy." He acknowledged her with a quiet drawl, and he saw her start at his use of her name. It had been a long time. He doubted anyone ever knew much less called her by it these days. He looked pointedly at the blood staining her skin. "Long night?"

Buffy did her best to recover and look bored, but he could see the tenseness of her stance as she looked over the Mustang at him.

"Show me one that isn't," she replied wearily. Her eyes glittered with speculation. "So, what, are you following me, now?"

Spike took another drag on his cigarette and concentrated on stilling his shaking fingers before he answered with his well-practiced lie. "Don't get your hopes up, pet. Truth is, I was out this way on a bit of business, and stopped here for a drink, but it looks like the old place just closed up shop." He shifted his weight and raised a scarred brow pointedly at the ominously quiet bar.

Buffy shook back her disheveled mane of honey-blonde hair and looked back over her shoulder at the decrepit shanty. "Whiskey was watered down anyway," she muttered mulishly, and dropped into her car with a quick movement. Her hands turned the key, and clutched the wheel, but his question seemed to stop her before she closed the door.

"What were you drinkin' for, love?" he asked her above the growl of the engine. "Tryin' to remember, or tryin' to forget?"

Buffy looked over at him as he walked around the front of the car to stand next to her open door. Her nearness made his senses prickle, and his skin tingle. Her gaze caught on his before it dropped to his scuffed boots. "Neither," she answered reluctantly.

"Liar."

She glared back up at him and he nearly smiled at the surge of adrenaline he received from it. The rush he felt from just looking at her, from just being near her again was dizzying. Had it been so long since he'd seen her?

_God, yes…_

"It's been awhile," Spike commented, and watched as plush red lips opened on a sigh, revealing perfect white teeth.

"Yeah, it has." Her tongue flickered out to dampen her lips, and his groin instantly tightened. He straightened up uncomfortably, but if Buffy noticed his sudden arousal, she didn't say anything.

After regaining some control over his emotions, he casually asked, "Where you been, Buffy?"

Buffy shrugged, drumming her fingers on her steering wheel. Her fingernails were unpainted. It said a lot about her priorities these days. "Nowhere, everywhere. Does it matter?"

She sounded nervous. Good. Meant he had the upper hand for the moment.

"It does if you don't know where you're goin'," he replied darkly.

Buffy laughed suddenly and the sound startled him.

"I know where I'm going in the end, Spike," she told him. "I guess that's all that really matters, isn't it? Maybe I should get it over with – I don't know." She looked up at him, hazel eyes shining in the pale light, and obviously tried to smile cheekily. "How's Hell this time of year, do you think? Maybe I can get a torture room with a view, since I seem to have an open-ended credit."

Spike exhaled roughly as old wounds tore, opened up anew, and bled freely. Guilt wasn't a new emotion, though. It was always there, eating away, torturing him, teasing his sanity. He flicked his cigarette away before he remembered it had been his last one. He gave his head a shake. Yeah, guilt seemed to be the only thing he had in spades these days. He looked at the cigarette glowing in the darkness, and crushed it into the ground under his boot.

Something about her had always driven him up a road he didn't particularly feel like traveling. What was it about this girl that had always gotten under his skin so badly? Why did it have to be _her_? She hated his guts, always had, always would…he'd guaranteed that.

And there was absolutely _nothing_ he could do to redeem himself in her eyes.

A hopeless feeling came over him.

She'd only hate him all the more after he told her what he'd come to. He only wished he could feel the same about her. It would make things so much easier…

Buffy looked the vampire over, eyes drifting up over dusty black boots, faded black jeans, a dull silver belt buckle, black tee, and battered leather duster. God, he hadn't changed a bit. The glint of a thin gold chain at his throat made her look away before she reached his face. She didn't dare look him in the eyes. She cleared her throat.

"How is...everybody?"

Spike made a disgusted noise, and his voice held a steely note of dislike. "Maybe you should call 'em every once in a while and ask 'em yourself."

Stung, Buffy dropped her eyes to her lap. "They don't want anything to do with me."

"Right then, keep tellin' yourself that. Maybe one day you'll finally start smellin' that massive load of crap you're shovelin'."

Buffy lashed out at him, years of anger and hurt surfacing. "They think I betrayed them!"

_"I did betray them… "__

* * *

_

Ten years and she was singing the same old song. Spike couldn't help but wonder how she'd made it this far as vampire, but then he reminded himself that Buffy seemed to thrive on misery. He could stop wondering.

"Well, in a way you did betray 'em – you ran away. Left 'em alone, didn't you?" _Left _me_ alone…_

She wrenched her head around to growl up at him, her features changing, obviously before she could think to control them. Guilt twisted savagely inside of him again at the sight.

"Are you telling I didn't have reason to? I'm a vampire, I killed – " Buffy closed her eyes and shook away the fierce demon visage. "I may as well be dead to them," she said in a small voice.

Spike shrugged. "Well, I won't argue with you on that point, love, cause let's face it, you _are_ dead. That doesn't mean anything." He pointed past her shoulder in the general direction of Sunnydale. "Those people – your _family_ – could give a sod less what you are. They just want you to be home and safe where you belong."

"I murdered Anya," Buffy reminded him flatly. "I woke up the night after Warren shot me, hunted her down in the Magic Box, and ripped out her throat. I would have done the same to the others if you hadn't trapped me and held me until Willow gave me back my soul. Tell me again that they 'want' me at home."

He knew she didn't want their forgiveness. It was just another way to punish herself. Struck by irony, the line, _"the curse shall be forgiveness",_ ran briefly through his head. "Sound like a bleedin' parrot, you do. You've got yourself a soul now, ducks. Sure, you're a killer, but you're still the Slayer in there. How many humans have you bagged since the Restoration spell, huh? And while we're on this subject, pretty bird, why aren't you roostin' with Peaches in L.A.? Just think of the massive brood the two of you could be stormin' up."

"I'm sorry, but - haven't we had this discussion before?"

He looked thoughtfully at the sky. "Roughly every two years, give or take a few months – and you've yet to answer me. Why not break the monotony?"

"I _have_ been to L.A. I've been to a lot of places."

Spike hid his dismay by exhaling another cloud of smoke. "Yeah?" Turning to the side, he moved to lean up against the car beside her, now close enough to touch her if he dared. Which he didn't, not just yet. "How'd that work out for you? L.A., I mean."

"Angel…he - _we_ moved on." She looked up, presumably to gauge his reaction. Her stern expression _dared_ him to comment.

"Is that right?" he asked mildly, but he dropped his lashes enough to hide the sudden glee in his eyes.

"Spike."

Her warning tone made his lips twitch, he couldn't help it. "What? Just makin' a little friendly type conversation, here."

The night was silent again, until, " So…you still love 'im?"

"Spike!" 

He chuckled, but his amusement at teasing her quickly faded away. They looked at each other for a long time before a noise sounded from inside the bar. Someone cursed.

"Sounds like the natives are restless," Buffy said ruefully, looking toward the building. She looked back at him with an almost wistful smile. "I should probably go."

Spike reached out and caught her arm as she moved to pull the door closed. She looked at his hand questioningly.

"You're too pale," he commented solemnly. "Have you fed?"

Her eyes dropped, and she slowly moved her arm out from under his hand.

"Buffy – "

"No, it's alright. I haven't, in a few days. It's kind of hard to do when I'm on the move. Not many butchers out in the middle of nowhere."

"Know what you mean," he commiserated. "When I was in Africa – " he cut himself off.

Buffy blinked at him, but thankfully she didn't press him.

"Listen, I've got a bit with me, and I've fed already – it'll ruin if you don't take it."

"No, I couldn't – " Buffy protested, but he was already walking back to his bike. A moment later he returned with a cold flask, and held it out to her.

"Drink up, love."

Buffy eyed it with uncertainty. "Spike…"

He rolled his eyes and twisted off the cap, shoving it under her nose so she could smell it. "S'just pig's blood, Buff. Go on, you need it. Cheers an' all that."

Her hunger must have been sharp, because in the end she took it from his hand and quickly downed it. Spike had to look away. The sight of his Slayer drinking blood affected him in ways he didn't want to think on.

Spike accepted the empty flask back when she was done, and he tucked it into his coat, watching her closely as she lifted a hand to her lips to wipe at them. "Better?" he forced himself to ask.

Her hazel eyes were suddenly dull as she looked up at him. "Yeah. Thanks, I don't know what…" she trailed off as her eyes began to drift shut. She swayed in her seat. "I feel…weird…"

Spike blinked rapidly, swallowing against a lump in his throat. "You're okay, pet. Just go to sleep."

"Tired," she murmured, slumping over the wheel. "Did you…?"

A mass of loud, angry shouting and yelling suddenly burst from inside the bar, and Spike moved around the car door, and quickly shifted Buffy into the passenger seat.

She moaned in protest, head resting against his shoulder as he pulled the door closed and shifted into reverse. Shadowed figures were already spilling from inside the bar as he peeled out onto the old stretch of highway and pressed hard on the gas pedal.

"Spike…what's happening?" Buffy's pretty face was creased with frown lines as she looked trustingly up at him, fighting to keep her eyes open.

Spike moved his arm to encircle her, and her head rolled against his chest. His voice was filled with regret as he whispered in her ear. "Sorry love, I let you drive me away too many times already. S'time you knew the truth, and then…then you're needed back home."

Buffy closed her eyes.

* * *

She woke up hungry…and furious.

Buffy opened her eyes to a dingy motel room – her head felt heavy, and her mouth was fuzzy, and she knew she'd been drugged. She looked around, but Spike was nowhere to be seen. It was still night, but something told her a lot of time had passed.

She moved to get up from the bed she was lying on. That was when she discovered she'd been handcuffed – _twice_ – to the headboard.

He'd better not come back, she decided after what had to be an hour of struggling. He'd better not even show his face to her ever again, because tempers and bloodlust and hunger weren't advisably mixable, especially _not_ with Spike.

He brought blood with him when he came back.

Buffy stared at him until he came over and released her. Angry as she was with him, she only sighed tiredly when he brought her a cup of blood.

Taking it, she gingerly sniffed it before she drank it. She kept her eyes on him as he walked to the window and stood there. She placed the empty cup on the nightstand.

"Why'd you bring me here?" she surprised herself by asking.

He didn't answer for the longest time. Buffy's mind began to wander, probably a side effect of whatever drug he'd used on her.

"What do you remember about that night?"

Spike had been so silent for so long, she'd started to think she was alone in the dark motel room. His question startled her. She glanced over to see the outline of his body against the picture window near the door. He had one hand out, parting the curtains to look into the night beyond.

"I really don't want to talk about this," she said, turning onto her side on the bed.

"No more than I do, pet," was his quiet response.

Buffy sighed, closing her eyes.

"Tell me about it," he asked in a rough voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you remember."

Images came to her, unbidden, flashing against the backs of her eyelids. Cold tile, grabbing hands, desperate voices, purple bruises…

"I remember…hurting," she told him, pushing her cheek into her pillow. "I remember being angry, and frightened." She rolled over to face him again, and slowly sat up, her legs underneath her. She stared at his back, studying the tenseness of his shoulders and the way his duster pulled taut across them.

"I remember wanting to kill you."

Buffy watched the fist clenching a handful of the heavy window drape tighten, and heard the loud rip of fabric before he released it, his arm falling slowly to his side. His head bowed slightly, and he twisted it around slightly, as if he might look over his shoulder at her, but he didn't. She could see his profile now, could see the harsh set of his features, the shadowed blue of one heavily lashed eye as he stared sightlessly at the wall beside the scuffed door.

"What else?" he asked hoarsely.

Buffy pulled her knees up, and wrapped her arms around them, still watching his face. "I remember going to stop Warren and the others. They went to jail, and I followed them, to make sure they got there. After that, I-I was going to go home…but I went to the cemetery instead. I wanted…I wanted to talk to you. I was worried about you doing something crazy," she said with a choked laugh. "I went by your crypt, but Clem said you weren't there, that you'd left. So I left."

"But I was," Spike said, a bitter smile coming to his lips.

Buffy dropped her arms. "What?"

He turned to face her, crossing his arms over his chest, holding himself. His eyes were suddenly darting all over the place, and he was trembling – even his voice was shaky. "I was there, in the crypt, when you came. I couldn't bear to look at you, blamed you for what I'd done, for making me crazy. I was going to leave Sunnydale, but you got there before I did. I was below, and Clem covered for me. I heard you leave, Buffy, and then – _God_ - then I heard the gunshots. A-and I ran, because I knew you were in danger…but I wasn't fast enough. Fuck, I never am," he gritted, lifting one fist to grind it into his eyes.

Recalling the pain of the bullet tearing into her, Buffy lifted a hand to press it to her chest. She lowered her legs until her feet were on the floor, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes widened, became teary with sudden realization and understanding. "It was you," she whispered, her gaze shifting to his downcast eyes.

"It was _you_."

"Yeah," he sniffed, dropping his hand, a half-laugh, half-sob escaping his chest. "It was me. I came up, saw you bleedin' on the ground, saw that bastard standing over you with a gun, wavin' it around, gloating and yellin'. I lost it, Buffy. I saw red, ripped his bloody throat out – the friggin' chip fired so hard I thought I was done for, but all of a sudden it just stopped. I think it got fried."

Buffy heard him, but the knowledge that Spike had been running around chip-free for nearly ten years was nothing compared to what else he'd revealed.

"You're my sire," she said flatly in acknowledgement. "You're the vampire that turned me."

"Yeah," he said again, taking a shuddering breath.

Buffy stood up, her hands fisting at her sides. "Why weren't you there? Why weren't you there when I woke up?"

"I was scared," he told her honestly. "I didn't know what to do Buffy. I didn't want to see you that way. I didn't want to see you changed like I knew you would have to be. I was sick when I realized what I'd done to you. It was like a nightmare. I went more than a little mad, then. I couldn't face it, couldn't face you, so I put you in that crypt and locked you up, until I could…"

"Until you could what, Spike?" she nearly shrieked. "Until what! I was the Slayer! What did you think I would do when I woke up? Did you really think a chained door was going to keep me inside?"

"I told you, I wasn't thinking – "

"God, Spike – why did you do it? Just – why? If you loved me - "

"If I loved you I would've let you die again," he finished bitterly. "That's the thing, Buffy – I did love you. I did love you enough to let you go, but I wasn't anywhere near sane that night, and you know it. You were already wearing the proof of it."

"Are you actually claiming temporary insanity!"

"You were _dying_!" he roared into her face. "You don't know what it was like, seein' you laying there on a fresh grave with a hole in your chest, your blood draining into the ground. The soddin' blood was everywhere, Buffy, his, yours - I was drowning in it. I was raving. All I knew was that you were hurt, and I had to save you. Losing you again would have killed me."

Buffy felt her face shift, and she glared at him through yellow-gold eyes. "Forgive me for not giving a shit! I killed Anya because of you! I don't ever want to hear how much you 'love' me again, because I know! You loved me so much you had to make sure that one day I'll end up in Hell, right beside you!"

Spike backed off, his face stunned. "You think I haven't thought about that? That it doesn't haunt me every bloody – "

Buffy cut him off. "Congratulations Spike," she said sadly, her fury ebbing away, leaving her strangely empty. "It's about ten years too late, but I guess you got to add that third Slayer to your list, after all, didn't you?"

Looking stricken to the bone, Spike shook his head, and then whirled away from her, stumbling slightly as he tore open the door and disappeared out of it, not even bothering to close it behind him.

Feeling drained and oddly apathetic, Buffy watched the open door swing on its squeaky hinges in the breeze, back and forth, until she heard the sound of an engine roaring to life in the parking lot below. She listened to the tires screeching as they sped out of the lot and out onto the dusty highway, and didn't move a muscle until the sounds faded away completely.

When the night was silent again, she walked over to the door and closed it, not bothering to lock it. She leaned up against it, and then slid down it to sit on the floor and wait.

Spike would be back, she knew. He always came back.

He'd be back because he loved her. She knew he truly did, now, because, deep inside her heart, if situations had been reversed, if it had been years earlier, if it had been Angel in her place…she'd have done the exact same thing.

* * *

"S_ay you were split, you were split into fragments_

_And none of the pieces would talk to you_

_Wouldn't you want to be who you had been?_

_Well, baby I want that too._

_So better take the keys_

_And drive forever_

_Staying won't put these_

_Pieces back together_

_All the perfect drugs_

_And superheroes_

_Wouldn't be enough to bring me up to zero_

_Baby you're great, You've been more than patient _

_Saying it's not a catastrophe_

_But I'm not the girl you once put your faith in_

_Just someone who looks like me"_

_- Humpty Dumpty, Aimee Mann_

_

* * *

_

TBC? 


End file.
